Ye of Bygone Days
by DanishCookie
Summary: The land of Tamriel is finally at peace; Alduin was vanquished eight years before, and with the end of the Second Great War, the Aldmeri Dominion has fallen. Yet, not all is right, and the Dragonborn finds himself without cause, without goals. When he is suddenly whisked away by a god once thought dead, to the land of Alagaesia, he finds himself with purpose once more.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own neither the Elder Scrolls nor The Inheritance Cycle. They belong to Bethesda Softworks and Christopher Paolini respectively.**

The sky blazed red, angry, inhospitable, as it glared down upon those who dared stand below it. The air was grimy, and humid, one of the worst environments for those clad in heavy armor to work in. And yet, those who slogged through the air were not weary, nor miserable, nor even tired.

Nay, they cheered, they celebrated, and they made merry, as fireworks burst in the air and songs were sung of the Imperial Legion's victories.

Bands of Imperial Legionaries celebrated, clinking together glasses of wine and mead, groups of Nords sat at fires and regaled each other of stories of their heroics and their experiences. Troupes of Redguard warriors mock-dueled, while singing and cheering in the native languages of the lost continent of Yokuda, and the varied Breton Knights that were intermingled amongst the others held their shields and swords high, praising the Nine Divines for their mercy.

But, in any war, there are always two sides, and as those who hailed from Cyrodiil, Skyrim, Hammerfell, High Rock, and Morrowind cheered and gloried, the few Altmer, Bosmer, and Khajiit that remained were clad in steel manacles, pushed along the streets as they were shown off as the spoils of victory. In a ruinous backdrop against a victorious celebration, the city of Cloudrest, the last stronghold of the Aldmeri Dominion, burned, its people displaced, and its garrison nearly decimated—only a handful of defenders remained, the sole survivors of the losing side, in a war that tormented the entirety of Tamriel. The Second Great War was over, and the Empire was victorious, as its soldiers reveled, its commanders took charge, and its leaders watched for the next sign of trouble afoot. It had taken six long, hard years for the war to end, and it had only been thirty four years since the end of the last war. The people of Tamriel were weary of fighting, and they had only wanted the long, grueling conflict to end, so that they could once more attend to their hard lives.

As the soldiers reveled and celebrated, they did not notice one of the key members of the siege watching from afar on a balcony, his arms crossed and his face hidden by a leather and cloth mask and hood. A black cloak rippled behind him, and on his back sat a sword of _ebonsteel_ , a daring combination of Cyrodiilic steel and rare ebony. He smiled grimly, watching both the cheerful and the miserable, the victors and the defeated. He was not exempt from the celebrations—he had killed his share of Aldmeri soldiers, after all, and his blades were by no means untainted. And yet, the man only watched, unwilling to take part in the reveling.

Suddenly, his head turned an immeasurable amount to his left, his ears perked slightly. Green draconic eyes narrowed for a second, gauging the potential danger. After a moment, his head turned back, his focus now divided.

"Tullius."

A pair of eyes widened behind him, before a man walked out onto the balcony, clad in a _lorica musculata_ , the standard armor of Imperial Legion officers. He joined the first in watching the soldiers, before his mouth opened slightly, words at the tip of his tongue.

"I could never get the jump on you, Haleth. You always seem to know who and what is behind you or around you." The man clad in black simply nodded. "I get it, you're still not much of a talker. That's fine, but I do wish you'd open up a bit more, my friend."

"I've never been the charismatic sort."

General Tullius chuckled, a hearty smile on his mouth, before turning to look at Haleth. "Yes, indeed, no one would ever label you as the 'handsome rogue.'" His smile disappeared, as he focused his attention fully on Haleth. "So, what are you doing right now?"

"Watching. Our men are happy, they cheer, they celebrate, they drink, and they sing. The Aldmeri, on the other hand, they suffer and they weep at their losses," he said. "There are always two sides to a war, and I intend to focus on both. It helps me to cope."

"I would expect so. The blood on your hands… I expect you've killed thousands by now with that blade of yours. No sane man could deal with that easily."

Haleth simply nodded. No other words were needed.

"And now the Empire has to reform the governments for the Isles, Valenwood, and Elsweyr. Replace the old ones with new governments that don't support the Aldmeri Dominion." Tullius groaned, weary at the mere prospect. "It's going to be hard, and it's going to be painful."

"Titus Mede the Third is a good emperor, a sensible man. He'll do well."

"Indeed he is. He's young, and many in the Elder Council think he's too inexperienced to do his job." Tullius leaned towards Haleth, his voice lowering. "This is just between you and me, but I'm pretty sure Titus Mede II, his father, wouldn't have done as well in this war. Probably would have lost it, too."

"Agreed."

The two men resumed their watching in silence, one curious as to the thoughts of the other, unable to spark more conversation. For several minutes, this continued, as the fireworks continued to burst in the sky. The occasional Imperial Battlemage engaged in the celebrations, firing off different spells into the air to signal their achievements. It was a night to be written in hundreds of different books and novels, yet none would be able to capture it in essence and spirit.

Tullius suddenly looked at Haleth, clearing his throat to gain his attention. Haleth's head turned slightly, nearly unseen. "So, Haleth… what will you do now?"

"What do you mean?"

"You erased the dragon-threat—even now, many of the dragons see you as their…what was the word? _Thur_?" Haleth nodded, affirming Tullius' query. "The Civil War in Skyrim was ended, arguably by your hand, and we hunted down those responsible for assassinating Titus Mede II." Tullius took a breath, before continuing. "The Thalmor are defeated now—the Aldmeri Dominion is no more."

"What are you getting at, Tullius?" Despite asking, Haleth knew exactly the purpose of Tullius's question.

"Haleth, everything you told me you were working for is done. Finished. And you seem like the kind of man to always keep a goal in mind. So, what will you do now, since all of your goals have been accomplished?"

Haleth said nothing in return, merely contemplating the question. It was true, everything Haleth had worked towards since that fateful day in Helgen had been achieved. He had nothing left, nothing to do…

What now?

"I'll wander."

"What?"

"You heard me, Tullius. I'll wander. I'll adventure. Keep moving, with no end in sight. That's how I've always lived, hasn't it?"

"That's it, Haleth? No home, no family, nothing? I'm a soldier, but even I have a family to provide for, a home to keep comely, and a legion to keep running. You're telling me you don't want any of that?"

"No."

Tullius's hands raised slightly, gesturing his resignation to Haleth's resolution, and his inability to change Haleth's mind. "When will you start?"

"Now."

Slightly alarmed, Tullius fully turned his body towards Haleth, unsure what to say. "What?"

"I'll start now. Tonight, if you will."

"Don't you want to stay for at least a little bit? Rest awhile, take part in the celebrations? The men out there look up to you, Haleth. You could at least oblige them."

"No."

Tullius sighed, defeated, and again turned away, putting his hands on the railing. "Then, that's fine, Haleth. But remember, the Empire, the Legion, and me? We'll always be there for you."

Haleth simply nodded before turning around, his cloak whipping to the side. He made for the door, meaning to leave and start his journey, before he stopped to the sound of Tullius' last question.

"By the way, Haleth… everyone knows you as either Haleth, or the Dragonborn—Ysmir, even, or the Dragon of the North. But… you've never told me your surname. Your family name."

"Carvein."

"What?"

"Carvein."

Tullius thought for a moment, before his eyes widened, reaching a conclusion. "Carvein? That was the name of the last royal family of Bruma, before the Thalmor assassinated them. The Count was murdered, and the Countess fled with her child, presumed taken by the wilds. Doesn't that mean-?

"Yes, Tullius. My father was Karlath Carvein, the Count, and my mother was Rostei Carvein, the Countess."

With that, Haleth left, his job done, and his will to wander peaking. He left Tullius behind, the Imperial General spluttering as his mind spun at the possibilities.

Reaching the stables of Cloudrest, Haleth reached the stall where Frost, the mare that he had bonded with long ago, waited, her head raised high as she waited for Haleth. As he mounted the ice-white horse, Haleth took one last look at the celebrations and fireworks, before urging Frost forwards, unknowing of where the world would take him.

Haleth would wander the wilds until he died. He had no other duty or goal in his life.

* * *

It had been a week since his departure from the Summerset Isles—days had gone by slowly, and Haleth could see that nearly the entirety of the Empire was still celebrating their victory over the Aldmeri Dominion. And yet, Haleth could not will himself to take part in the reveling—the fall of the Aldmeri Dominion had symbolized the completion of Haleth's last goal.

Wandering as he had done in his early years had brought no satisfaction to Haleth now. The land was bland to him, and as he looked over the former battlefields of the Second Great War, still strewn with bodies, weapons, and magical residue, Haleth wondered if his existence meant nothing, even as the mighty Dragonborn.

And now, Haleth found himself near Chorrol, in the forests that had been the birthplace of the Second Great War. The red-streaked snow that had capped the land then had cleared, opening the way for summer, and the sounds of the night rang through the trees. Moonlight strove to shine down through the woods, but failed to do so. The darkness overcame everything.

Here, Haleth was in his element. And so, as the eighth day of his journey concluded, he sat down, leaning his back against a tree. Sleep would take him soon, but for the time being, he resolved to simply meditate.

Meditation took many forms. The mages of the Empire would often meditate through the studies and the integration of the essence of the magicka within them. The warriors of Hammerfell would meditate by dueling and performing battle dances, while the Khajiiti monks who traveled Elsweyr's deserts often chose to sit under the desert moons and simply clear their minds.

Haleth, however, chose a very different method of meditation. His mind was full of the souls of hundreds of dragons, and they all called out to him, screaming, yelling, cheering, and even crying. The presence of such beings in Haleth's own soul and blood would drive any normal man insane, and even though he was far from normal, the call of the dragon, the imperious horn that sounded for _domination_ and _conquest_ , would not be denied. Eventually, Haleth would have succumbed to it—he might have gone insane, like some of the old Dragonborn emperors of old, or he might have become hell-bent on power and control, much like the First—Miraak—had become. Others in his lineage had attuned themselves to the call well, like Uriel Septim, but they had not been subject to the maddening throes of the dragons within Haleth.

Haleth had once submitted himself to the inevitability to the eventual loss of his self, to his draconic side. And yet, on a fateful day early in his time as the Dragonborn, Haleth had come across not one, but three different Daedric Princes, all who had a specific reason to find him.

Nocturnal, the Daedric Prince of Thieves, had been one of them. Typically one to refrain from contact with mortals besides her cherished Nightingales, Nocturnal had contacted Haleth, seeing a chance to seize power to defy the Aedra. Hircine had quickly joined her, and soon after, Azura herself put a stake on Haleth's soul. The three Daedric Princes had quickly resolved to integrate their desires, and had marked Haleth, a piece of Akatosh's last child.

In return, Haleth had received powers, abilities that marked him above any other mortal, Dragonborn or not. Each Prince had given a piece of his own sphere of influence, and he had been quick to find out how. And now, the darkness, the night, called out to him, cried at him, and merged with his soul, creating a blend of man, dragon, and the _dark._ With his powers had come an extremely strong resistance to magic, but his shouts had become handicapped as a result. They were stronger, yes, but caused Haleth no short amount of fatigue.

Thus, the Dragonborn had a means to escape the once inevitable damnation to insanity that came with his new soul, and had eagerly accepted it, despite all potential consequences. He was still linked to his father, Akatosh, and was still Dragon in blood, yet now, he was able to connect to the dark, and could give himself to the darkness when need be to clear his mind. And so, in the shadows of the forests of Chorrol, Haleth gave himself to that darkness, and his mind fell into the Abyss.

* * *

Everywhere he turned, it was black, oily shadows pervading the air—if it could be called air. Haleth breathed in and out, silently appreciating his escape from reality. This was his soul—or, rather, a section of it—and here, Haleth could escape the Dragon blood.

The other sections of his soul, his "lightsong," as some of the elves called it, were dominated by the dragon within him, and his humanity. Of course, the dragon part of him threatened to rout his humanity all the time, held back only by the throes of his own living body, yet with each dragon soul absorbed, came the greater risk of becoming subjugated by the draconic being given to him by his father, Akatosh. Yet, the darkness within him guaranteed that a portion of him would survive—and so this was the place where he retreated to meditate.

Haleth willed his consciousness to sit down, upon the inky nothing that was all around. Closing his eyes, he simply cleared his mind, eager to begin what had long ago replaced his sleep.

And then he felt it. Haleth's mind was suddenly invaded by another entity…an intrusion on his soul, something that should not exist within it. Immediately, his mind was fully aware, and his metaphorical eyes snapped open as he jumped up, attempting to sense everything around him.

A being… old as Akatosh, as powerful as the Daedra themselves, yet… weak, in a sense—losing power by the second. Haleth looked forwards, and in front of him sat… or, rather, _floated_ , a glowing light of a myriad of colors—a rainbow, really. Haleth scrambled backwards, shielding his eyes from the kaleidoscope of bright lights in front of him.

"W-what…"

"Peace, _Dovahkiin_. Do not be afraid." The light in front of Haleth seemed to flicker, as if it were chuckling. "I assume this is the physical representation of your soul?"

Haleth, alarmed and confused, simply nodded, unable to comprehend the existence of someone within his own semi-divine soul.

"Ah. It is… unique." The light seemed to flicker a dark red, as if signifying a slight bout of anger. "It… sings to me, in the language of the Daedra… what have you done? I'm not sure my fellow Akatosh, your father, would approve of that…"

Haleth said nothing in return, electing to simply watch. For the first time in his life as the Dragonborn, he was unsure of what to do.

"Ah, but that is not why I am here. Do you know who I am, _Dovahkiin_?"

Haleth shook his head, narrowing his eyes while searching his memories for what this being could be.

"I, my dear dragon, am Lorkhan—the Trickster, the Missing God, Shor, or whatever suits your fancy. Do you realize, now, who I am?"

Haleth's eyes widened—it was impossible! Lorkhan, the dead god, whose heart was pierced by Akatosh, or Auriel, himself! A dead god, the first and sole Aedra to have died and disappeared! And yet, Lorkhan himself was in front of the Dragonborn - though without physical shape.

"Do you know why I have appeared to you, Dovahkiin? Ah, what am I saying, of course you don't. Not even Akatosh knows that I still live, that I still exist."

"Many think that I have simply died, disappeared. Yet, that is not the case. I still breath, I still live, and yet, I cannot re-enter neither Aetherius, Oblivion, or Nirn. My soul is banished, forever. So, I created my own world, out of what remained of Magnus, and I have watched over it, nurtured it, since. Ah, but I won't tell you the entire story of my own plane of existence—that will take much too long, and I do not have enough time for that."

In response, Haleth's eyes narrowed—whenever an Aedra or Daedra came to him, they always wanted something, _needed_ something, from him. Haleth would not be fooled by the friendly manner of the dead Aedra in front of him—Lorkhan obviously wanted something out of Haleth, and he would rather hear what it was. "What then do you want, Lorkhan?"

"Ah. Straight to the point, are you? I like that, no questioning, no brash refusal, nothing. That's smart, that is." The light circled Haleth, flickering between different colors. "Yes, I do need something… Haleth. We all do. But the world I created… it is _dying_." Haleth raised an eyebrow, waiting for Lorkhan to continue. "Magnus' remains provided leaps and bounds of the magic that I needed to create it, and for thousands of years, the inhabitants of that world have existed off it. Yet, it is not enough—the people in my world are godless, and their magic is running out. In fact, there has always been such a lack of it, that its inhabitants were forced to use their own souls to bolster their magic. Now, Magnus's remains have almost exhausted themselves, so I am forced to come up with a plan."

"Which is?"

"You see, my dear dragon, or wolf, or nightingale, or moon, whatever you are, that plan requires you."

"What?"

"You are the Dragonborn, my boy! The last son of Akatosh himself, damn that fool! Where you go, _they_ will follow! The Aedra will, as you are the child of their liege-lord. The Daedra have obviously taken a vast interest in you, seeing as how your soul has been split into three. They will all follow, and with them, comes the magic I need to sustain my own plane of existence!" The light suddenly turned a deep shade of red, shaking in its place. "I absolutely hate to bring those fools into my own world, but I have no choice—I will have to risk their taint to allow my creation to survive. And so they will. I will disappear, eventually—I am always losing more of myself. But my creation, my child —it will live! It will continue my legacy, and that, _Dovahkiin,_ is what I have always wanted."

Haleth started to back away slowly, alarmed as the now dark red light in front of him followed slowly, creeping towards the Dragonborn. He grasped behind his shoulder for his blade, but found none—this was his mind. He only had himself.

Lorkhan should not be here!

"So you, Dovahkiin, will come with me! I will take you, and place you in my world, in Alagaesia! And they will follow… eventually. All endeavors start with baby steps, and you, my boy, will be the first of these steps."

Suddenly, Haleth could not move his body, and he felt a choking sensation – he was unable to breath. He could no longer feel the ground under his feet, and as his vision slowly turned black, he heard Lorkhan speak one last time.

"And you, Haleth, will have much fun in my world."

 **Author's Note:**

Hey, guys. Welcome to my latest story. Hope you all enjoyed! All reviews are appreciated, both criticism and praise, so don't forget to review! Anything would help, be it for grammar, story cohesion, dialogue, etc. etc.

Also, many thanks to my beta, Skyflower51! She has helped out a lot, so give her a round of applause.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own neither the Elder Scrolls nor The Inheritance Cycle. They belong to Bethesda Softworks and Christopher Paolini respectively.**

A bird, a robin, flew through the cold air, holding in its feet a set of dry autumn sticks and leaves. Landing upon a branch of an oak tree, it laid the twigs and leaves onto its nest, before hopping around to the other side of the branch. Tipping its head, it observed the four azure eggs sitting within its nest, pleased at the sight of its unborn children. It raised its beak, before letting loose a few tweets, singing its pleasant song.

Suddenly, it broke off its song, cocking its head to the side, instantly alert. A certain crackle in the atmosphere, some sort of… anomaly, burst into existence below the robin's tree, and immediately the robin was in the air, attempting to escape from any potential danger, yet aware that its eggs lay in peril.

Seconds later, the anomaly disappeared altogether, and the robin returned to its nest, eager to protect its eggs, before turning its head back to where the blue light once was. In its place lay some sort of mound of cloth, black and unmoving. A few meters to the side, another mound sat, this one a glistening ice white, its four legs ending at firm, dark hooves. To its front, the robin could see several animals nearing the mounds in the darkness, curious as to whether they would find food in these sudden appearances. The mound of black, however, felt no need to be consumed, and it rustled, moving slightly. A groan emerged from the cloth, before it sat up to reveal a man, a sword at his back, a bow slung across, and a quiver full of arrows at his hip.

 _By the Nine Divines, my head feels like a giant used it as a club…_ Haleth groaned again as his stomach churned, before rubbing his pained head. _And my stomach feels as if it took a ride through Oblivion and back. . ._ Setting his pains to the side, Haleth stood up, his legs protesting at the movement, then stretched, his various weapons clinking and clattering as he did so. Satisfied, the Dragonborn looked around the forest, his keen eyes adjusting to the growing darkness of the twilight.

 _Sun is going down, air is cold—seems to be a mid-autumn evening. Where in Oblivion am I?_ Haleth looked up into the sky, hoping to see the moons Masser and Secunda - only to find that there was only one moon in the night sky, unfamiliar and foreign. Haleth's eyes widened, his mouth opening slightly, before the memories of his last night seeped back in.

 _Lorkhan came to me while I meditated, said something about a dying world, Magnus, the Aedra and the Daedra… Am I in Lorkhan's world now? It certainly isn't a realm of Oblivion—or is it?_ Lost in thought, Haleth continued to stare into the sky, before movement to his right caught his eye. The white mound with hooved legs that had appeared with him rose slowly, to reveal a muzzle and two intelligent, graceful eyes.

"Ah, Frost." Haleth approached the mare, a smile reaching his lips. "Nice to see that I'm not alone here, it's good to have you with me. Have you any idea where we are?"

In response, Frost snorted, her legs shaking slightly on the still unfamiliar ground. This was not Tamriel—this was nowhere on Nirn, she suspected. Still, she had her human, and if the man-dragon was safe, then she was satisfied.

"Oh, I didn't think you would. I suspect we may be in Lorkhan's world, though you probably know nothing of my meeting with the dead god." Haleth turned away from the horse, his eyes latching on to a set of lights in the distance. A town of sorts, most likely, as Haleth's sharp, attuned ears could catch the sound of voices in the distance, the rolling wheels of carriages and the _clip-clop_ of horses and mules. "Well, my dear horse, where there is a civilization, there is likely to be information, and with information, we can get a feel for the land, see what Lorkhan wanted us to do in the first place."

Frost snorted quietly, before trotting up to Haleth, as if waiting for him to mount her. Haleth saw this and shook his head, chuckling quietly.

"No, I don't think it'd be a good idea to ride you, Frost." He looked down at his attire—a modified Thieves Guild leather cuirass, dyed black, similar black boots and gloved bracers, and a linen cloak of the same color. His face was covered by both a hood and facemask, and his weapons shined in the waning light. "If this world is similar to our last, then I suspect it is usually the nobles, knights, or otherwise that ride into cities, and we definitely do not look the part. Come, Frost, I'll just lead you."

With that, Haleth grabbed hold of Frost's bridles, gently pulling her along as he walked towards the road. The two made their way towards the town, and Haleth could not help but notice the troupe of men making their way towards the town with them.

The majority of the men wore leather brigandine armor riveted with steel plate and chainmail shirts over gambesons of red, and overall looked both disciplined and deadly. They were armed with a variety of weapons, while most of them carried leather-bound heater shields and either arming swords or maces. Several, however, were armored in heavier suits of plate and leather, and carried polearms, longswords, and even the occasional arbalest. Another group of them were clothed in lighter gambesons over red tunics and cloaks, and wielded longbows—obviously the ranged support. Eleven in total. A couple of them flashed suspicious looks and glares at Haleth, and the Dragonborn averted his gaze, not wishing to garner their wrath. He needed to stay as incognito as possible, and these men were likely of some sort of military—the guard, perhaps, or the army of some kingdom in this land.

Haleth's guess was proven correct when, upon reaching the town gates at the same time as the soldiers, a voice called them out, labeling them as "soldiers of His Majesty's Imperial Army." Thus, an empire of sorts—probably encompassing the entirety of this land. The town itself was guarded by a myriad of other soldiers, likely guards, clad in red leather over varied tunics.

Haleth could feel the eyes of many on him, and looking around, could see that many of the townsfolk, guards, traders, and others were staring at him. Most likely due to his apparel and Frost—not many would clad themselves in such black clothing, cloaks, and masked hoods, fewer still would own a horse of Frost's breed, and even fewer still would carry the variety of weapons Haleth wielded—in total, an ebonsteel longsword at his back, his ash longbow slung across his shoulder, a dagger sheathed at his left shoulder, and one final dagger holstered on his thigh.

All in all, a very suspicious look. Haleth, in his haste to get to the town, had not considered himself. And thus, he was not surprised when one of the guards eyed him, before stopping Haleth in his tracks.

"Halt there, citizen. State your business, or be gone."

Haleth gazed into the guard's eyes, judging the man's character. A desperate guard, it seemed, who only wished to carry out his duty so that he could feed his family. No doubt the man would do anything to provide for his wife and children—even go against his own law. Haleth simply smirked under his mask, before lowering it to reveal his mouth.

"Simply a trader, of course."

In response, the guard raised an eyebrow, obviously unconvinced. "And what sort of trader would require the likes of your clothing? Where is your caravan, your wares, anything?"

"Oh, my apologies. I'm not the one who does the trading, I'm simply the caravan guard. My client is somewhere behind on the road—he happened upon a customer, and sent me ahead to make sure we had passage into the town."

The guard frowned, but Haleth could see that he was at least a little bit convinced. Still, though, the man remained suspicious. "And what sort of caravan guard would dress himself like you? And with all those weapons?"

At this, Haleth frowned in turn. He did not know enough of the land to make a solid bluff, and it was likely the guard would see right through it anyways. He was never the charismatic sort, unlike Brynjolf. Thus, Haleth leaned in close, gesturing for the guard to come closer. Bringing out a small satchel, Haleth opened it to reveal a collection of gems and jewels inside, glistening under the pale moonlight. "That is not of your concern. But, I'm sure this paltry sum would change your mind." Haleth angled the satchel towards the guard, making sure that he could see every single jewel inside. Garnets, amethysts, sapphires, and even the one emerald. Haleth watched the guard's face change slightly, doubt filling the man's gaze. He obviously did not want to perform illicit actions, yet the pressure of his family overwhelmed him. After a few seconds, the guard nodded, before taking some jewels from the satchel and stepping back again.

"Very well, you may pass. Beware, however, that the guard is always watching. Take care not to anger us."

Haleth nodded back, before grabbing hold of Frost's bridles, moving through the crowd into the town. Once inside, Haleth looked around, before taking note of several buildings.

First, what looked to be a forge or a workshop, from which heat radiated. However, Haleth saw that the forge was not for weapons nor armor—it was a civilian workshop. Haleth would not neither arms or gear there. Moving on, Haleth saw what looked to be a market, though the various vendors were closing their shops, a trader, and what looked to be a chancery. Several men, seemingly couriers, entered and exited the chancery, spreading word of such things as "postmasters," "bounties," "dragons," and "rebels." Interesting.

Finally, Haleth's gaze fell upon a building of wood and thatch, where the sounds of merrymaking, drinking, and laughter emanating inside. Haleth smirked, having found his quarry, and guided himself and Frost to what he determined to be the inn or tavern. Finding a small place to tie and keep Frost, Haleth bade the mare farewell, before entering the tavern itself.

Inside, Haleth was hit with the sudden smell of alcohol and food assaulting his nose and the sounds of reveling and laughter filling his ears. With his entrance, however, the noise seemed to die down, as the patrons of the tavern took notice Haleth. Within seconds, though, the place returned to normal, its inhabitants once more ignoring the Dragonborn. Haleth caught of a particular corner, dark, lit by a single candle, and walked over, sitting down at a table in a position that allowed himself to watch over the rest of the tavern. He adjusted his hood and mask, while motioning for one of the barmaids to come over.

The barmaid, a buxom woman of about twenty, arrived at his table. "What can I do for you, sir?"

Haleth did not answer for a few seconds, before taking out another satchel, this one smaller than the last, yet still filled with jewels. Taking out several of the precious stones, Haleth put them on the table, before finally looking at the woman. "Do you think that I could exchange these for some coin? It would help if I had some actual currency on me, instead of these rocks."

The woman hesitated, stuttering at the sight of the gems on the table. "I-I guess we could, I mean… these are jewels, aren't they? I reckon I could give you maybe three hundred crowns for these, if we could sell them at a greater price."

"Give me as many crowns as you think these gems would cost, then do with them as you will. And get me an… an ale, while you do that."

The barmaid nodded, still flustered, but left. A few minutes later, she returned with two satchels full of gold coins and a bottle of alcohol, before leaving once more. Pocketing the satchels of currency, Haleth thought back to the advice Brynjolf had given him that had led to Haleth perpetually keeping a satchel or two of gemstones on him.

' _I always like to keep at least some jewels on me, lad. Septims are fine and all, but in a bad situation, some gems could always get you out of spots easier than gold ever could. Small, and individually worth much more than a single coin. I've even bought me some Khajiit contacts over in Elsweyr with these things—they don't accept Septims there, or in the Aldmeri Dominion.'_

Thus, since then, Haleth had always made sure to keep some gems from his bountiful stash on his person. His various travels throughout the Aldmeri Dominion as an Imperial Agent before the war had caused him no end of frustration with the different currency, and his gems had always helped.

Popping out the cork to the bottle of ale, Haleth took a sip, before gazing around the rest of the tavern. Various patrons, of seemingly different classes and stations, yet all here for the same reasons—to simply drink. The troupe of soldiers from earlier were also in the tavern, holding mugs of ale and bowls of stew in their hands. Perking his ears, Haleth listened for as much information as he could gather.

"—rebels to the south are getting feistier, especially after their recent victories."

"Word is, they've made treaties with them Surdans, down to the south. The Surdan king's been spotted in their camps, he has."

"—three dragons now. The king's, damn his soul, that blue one with the new rider, and now, there's some sort of red dragon, belonging to an agent of the empire, they say."

Dragons? Enemies or allies? There was no way to be sure. The dragons back home were friendly now, with Paarthurnax's guidance, but these dragons were likely to be different. They were, after all, of Lorkhan's ilk, and not Akatosh's. But riders?

Yes. Very different, most likely.

Moving his attention to the soldiers, Haleth took another sip of his ale, simply watching out of the corner of his eye.

"That man there, in the black. Looks suspicious to me, he does."

"Agreed. No simple man, Imperial, Varden, or otherwise, has that many weapons or that kind of clothing. Maybe an agent of the Varden."

"What if he's the king's agent, come to test us or some'in like 'at?

"Not likely. King likes to use those damned Ra'zac, he does, and they're much more forthright. I reckon he's an enemy of the empire. I say we kill 'em."

"When?"

"Tomorrow, if he leaves. If not, then whenever he does leave. On the road, so we don't garner no attention from the locals. Piss-poor peasants don't need to know more than 'ey do already."

Haleth smirked, having heard his share. So be it, he would be ready for these soldiers in the meantime. But, what he was really interested in was this _Varden_ he kept hearing about. Rebels of some sort, against the king, whom the peasants had wanted to damn, for whatever reason. And if the king had a hostile dragon, then yes, Haleth could definitely see if this rebellion, this Varden, was worth joining.

However, Haleth's thoughts were interrupted by a sudden commotion in the tavern, where several men, likely farmers of some sort, stood over a young man and woman. Haleth snorted—likely some sort of argument over the woman, no doubt. Haleth had no interest in such matters, and was about to look away, when he noticed something out of place.

The young man himself exuded an aura of sorts, and Haleth's magic-attuned dragon soul labelled it as _magic_. It was odd, the magic itself seemed foreign, corrupted, _tainted_ , by some sort of being. The boy himself? No…What did Lorkhan say about magic in this world?

"… _There has always been such a lack of it, that its inhabitants were forced to use their own souls to bolster their magic."_

Ah, yes. That was it. The young man, obviously a mage, was using his own soul to feed his magic. Thus, the mortal taint within his magicka.

But that was not it. Years of spying within Aldmeri ranks, be it either espionage or counter-espionage, had given Haleth much ability to determine an elf from a human. And, gazing upon the young man, Haleth could very easily notice the makings of pointed ears under the man's hood. The Dragonborn frowned—what was the reason for the young man hiding that he was an elf? Persecution, perhaps, or were the elves some sort of faction against this Empire, and the boy was a spy, or an agent? A diplomat to these Varden, perhaps?

Haleth nodded to himself, determining on a course of action. Haleth could see a veil of magic under the woman as well—most likely some sort of illusion spell. These two... elves? They were most likely of some sort of force against the empire. Thus, Haleth would follow them in the morning—the two elves had since retreated upstairs, the fight having cooled down without an actual fight—and he would seek to find this Varden, or whatever resident force was against this empire. The soldiers would try to kill Haleth in the morning, no doubt, which could complicate things. Try was the keyword, however.

Finishing the last of his ale, Haleth gestured for the barmaid again, and when she arrived, he stood up.

"A room, please, and some peace and quiet. I'll be heading out in the morning. Also, there is a horse outside, a mare." Haleth handed the woman a handful of the coins that she had given him earlier. "Give her the best apples and hay you can provide her, and make her as comfortable as you can. The coin should be ample enough."

The woman briefly counted the crowns in her hand, before looking back up, astonished. "Sir, this is more than all that would cost!"

"Then keep the change. You gave me plenty enough for those jewels, you shouldn't be complaining—you have the gemstones, and you have this."

She nodded, giving Haleth a key and some directions to the room before leaving to relay Haleth's orders. Following her directions, Haleth found his room, closing and locking the door behind him. A window was built into the wall in one corner, and a simple bed sat in the other. Setting down his gear, Haleth simply elected to sleep in his attire, lying down calmly. He would wake up early in the morning tomorrow, but for now, he chose to sleep, his dreams quickly taking him.

 **Author's Note:**

So, I decided to post the second chapter, which was already written and complete, earlier than I intended to (which was this Saturday) so that the Dragonborn's entry into Alagaesia would be sped up.

Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! If you've got anything to say, be it constructive criticism or praise, feel free to drop a review. Until next time!

 **Individual Replies:**

Guest: You literally left a review as I was writing this author's note, heh heh.

Not for now, but I may contemplate that idea later.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I own neither the Elder Scrolls nor The Inheritance Cycle. They belong to Bethesda Softworks and Christopher Paolini respectively.**

 _The air itself burned over the city of Windhelm, angry, horrible. Great fiery spheres of forged steel and iron sang through the sky, clashing against the old walls of Ysgramor's city, and the ageless bricks groaned from the pressure, as the city inside flared with fire. Atop a snow-covered hill stood Haleth, watching the proceedings of the battle._

 _The Stormcloaks were making a valiant stand before the bridge, as line after line of the blue-clad rebels fell to the ever-approaching wave of crimson and mahogany. Men screamed as they fell, limbs torn off, and armor covered with blood. Even from his removed position, Haleth could smell the distinctive scent of blood, coppery and thick. Eventually, the Stormcloaks lost their position at the bridge and fled inside, the gates slamming shut behind them, and the legionaries brought forth a large ram, capped with ebony and the skull of a dragon._

 _Once the ram's job was done, the Imperial Legion swarmed inside, with Haleth and Legate Rikke at their head. Inside, the battle raged on, as scarlet clashed with blue, steel and magic flying this way and that. Haleth rushed forwards, his sword singing above his head, jumping at the nearest Stormcloak and bringing his blade down on the man's head. The ebonsteel longsword cleaved through the man's helmet, sending up a geyser of blood, and the Dragonborn pivoted on the balls of his feet to cut through another rebel's throat._

 _Four then came at Haleth, wielding greatswords and hammers, and without hesitation he sped towards them, rolling under a rather telegraphed swing of a hammer. He brought his sword up, slamming the blade against the unarmored portion of the attacker's stomach and slicing through, then brought his blade back up to deflect a downward swing from a greatsword. With three left to go, Haleth lunged forwards, feinting towards the closest Stormcloak, and then caught another's blade with his crossguard. Haleth brought his sword down, leaving his opposition vulnerable, before slashing up, severing the Stormcloak's head from his neck._

 _Before the last two Stormcloaks could attack him, they were struck down by two passing Imperial cavalrymen, spears stuck in their backs. The two riders continued on, searching for more targets down the street, and Haleth turned as a loud roar caught his attention. He turned to see a beast of a man, at least seven feet tall and clad in cerulean, swinging a large axe around his head. Legionaries circled the Stormcloak berserker, looking for openings. One legionary fell back with a cry, his shield shattered and his arm bloodied and crippled. The rest of the legionaries seemed wary, but Haleth rushed forwards, spotting the lack of armor besides a leather gambeson under the Stormcloak's blue cloth. Ducking under a swing of the axe, his ebonsteel sword sang through the air, and the man screamed as his arm was severed at the base. Quickly, Haleth thrust forwards, stabbing the Stormcloak in the shoulder and ripping upwards. Blood spouted angrily from the wound, and the berserker fell with a groan, the cobblestones under him turning red. Haleth turned away, seeing that the few Stormcloaks that remained had fled into the Palace of the Kings._

 _In a few minutes time, the legionaries had cleared out the keep, with only Ulfric and Galmar left at the throne. General Tullius himself led the way, flanked by Haleth and Rikke, addressing Ulfric Stormcloak in a strident voice._

 _Haleth watched as the men, and woman, hurled accusations back and forth, waiting patiently as they spewed forth their disagreements. Eventually, Galmar, Ulfric's right-hand man, threw himself at Tullius, weapon , and the General, not one to forget his own legionary training while commanding legions, struck out, his gladius spiking through Galmar's throat. With a sickening rip, the large man fell, gurgling as he choked on his own blood._

 _"Well, Ulfric, you can't escape from me this time,' Tullius said, turning to point his blade at the Stormcloaks' leader. 'Any last requests before I send you to... to wherever you people go when you die?"_

 _"Sovngarde… sir."_

 _Tullius turned towards Rikke, an irritated frown on his face. "Right. Well?"_

 _Ulfric seemed to think, before stepping down from his throne, stopping to look straight into Haleth's eyes. "Let the Dragonborn do it. It'll make for a better song."_

 _Despite everything, Haleth had to smile. In the end, Ulfric was a true Nord, through and through. It was a shame the man was the enemy—against all misgivings, Ulfric would have truly been a valuable ally against the Thalmor._

 _"Song or not, I just want it done."_

 _Haleth turned towards Tullius, a blank stare on his face, before facing Ulfric again. He hefted his ebonsteel sword and thrust it forward. Ulfric gasped as the sword exited through his back. His heart had been pierced right through._

 _A moment later, his body slumped, and as Haleth stared into the man's eyes, he could see the light leave them. A light that, selfish though it might have been, had always contained a tint of hope—hope for mankind's future, for the Nords, and a deep hatred for the Thalmor. A hatred that Haleth shared, and as he pulled his sword out of Ulfric's chest, Haleth muttered a promise, hoping that Ulfric's departing soul would hear it._

 _"I will destroy the Thalmor."_

* * *

The morning sun peered through the window of the tavern room, and the man sleeping within the bed woke with a tiny gasp. Opening his eyes, Haleth stared at the ceiling, contemplating his dream.

 _No. Not a dream. Memory, flashback, something of the sort. Maybe an augur of the future to come._ With a small groan from the bed, Haleth stood up, his bare feet touching the cold wood of the floor. _No matter. What time is it? The air is moist, cool, it's maybe six in the morning. I should be leaving by now._ Leaning down, the Dragonborn grabbed his gear, taking his time to equip it. He slipped on his boots, supporting his leg against the wall to buckle the boots on. His gloved bracers came on next, also buckled, and Haleth slung on his various bandoliers, satchels, and pouches before finishing with his cloak, whipping the black linen around his back. His hood went over his head, and his mask over his face.

Turning to his weapons, Haleth attached the sword in its scabbard to his back, slung his bow across his right shoulder with the quiver at his hip, and finished with his two daggers. With a small _clip_ he attached the second dagger to his left shoulder, making sure it was buckled down. Satisfied, the _Dovahkiin_ opened the door, eventually arriving inside the tavern itself.

He grabbed a loaf of bread, flicking a couple of crowns over to the bartender, before leaving the establishment. The morning sun shone down on him, the glares of light rendering him briefly blinded. He turned to the left, catching sight of Frost.

The horse was already awake—she always seemed to know when exactly Haleth planned to leave. She snorted upon seeing Haleth, as if amused by his presence, before trotting over to him.

"Hey there, Frost. You have a good night?" Haleth looked into the mare's eyes, patting her side as he did so. Her eyes twinkled slightly, as if saying yes, and the Dragonborn smirked. "Alright, that's fine. Now, Frost, we need to track a couple elves—they left a few minutes ago, didn't they?"

Frost snorted, again seeming to say yes, then turned, waiting for Haleth to guide her. With a nod, Haleth grabbed her bridle, before leading her on, this time leaving the town. Within a few minutes the pair had reached the gates, and with a nod to one of the guards—which was returned with a glare—Haleth passed through the gates.

Looking around, Haleth took notice of a faint trace of magicka—to the south, it seemed. Haleth grinned, before once more leading Frost, heading southbound. A few minutes later, the duo found themselves at a crossroads. To their front were two figures, and Haleth chuckled. He had found the elves. The Dragonborn elected to follow at a short distance, watching silently as the two elves chatted back and forth.

However, Haleth frowned a moment later when he saw a band of troops approaching them. Crimson, cloaks, and leather—the Empire of this land, it seemed. Their leader, sat upon a horse, seemed to notice the elves first, before catching sight of Haleth. Haleth could see the man grin and spur his horse on, leading his men towards the Nord. Haleth could see the two elves turning, gaping at the soldiers, and at Haleth, a keen, if alarmed, interest in their eyes.

"Halt, you!" The Dragonborn's attention snapped back towards the leader of the soldiers as the man yelled down at him. "What's your name?"

Haleth elected to stay silent, his hand ready to break towards the hilt of his sword. Seeing this, the soldier sneered, as if both amused and furious at the display of irreverence towards him.

"I said, what's your name? Tell me, or we'll beat it out of you."

Seeing no way out of this situation, Haleth let go of Frost's bridle, pushing her back, before grasping the hilt of the sword strapped to his back. Unsheathing it, he held the ebonsteel sword with both hands, carefully examining the situation in front of him.

Ten hostiles—one on a horse. Maybe four meters away. Five with swords and shields, two with longswords, also armored in steel plate and steel helmets, and the last two equipped with mere shortswords. The same group Haleth had seen at the town—maybe some of their weapons were still in town? No matter. The Dragonborn watched as the soldiers all drew their weapons, readying themselves to attack him.

"So be it, peasant! Men, attack!" The leader of the soldiers urged his horse forwards, a battlecry emerging from his lips, and he raised his blade to strike at Haleth. To the man's great surprise, however, he found himself flung from his seat, as his horse cried out in pain, its legs bloodied. A second later, the soldier fell upon the earth, and his head rolled revoltingly on the ground as his neck broke. Haleth paid the man and horse no mind, bracing himself for the rest of the soldiers' charges.

With practiced efficiency, Haleth parried a strike from a longsword, before turning and kicking out, striking another man's shield. The man fell back, but as another struck at the Dragonborn, he found his sword flung from his grasp and a sword protruding from his back. With great speed, Haleth spun around, tearing his blade from the soldier's side, deflecting a hack from a shortsword and countering, his blade singing down on the attacker's face.

 _Two down, one stunned, one likely crippled from his fall. Six left._ Haleth just barely heard the sound of a blade slicing at his back and twisted to block the strike with an over-the-shoulder parry. Turning around, he caught the next thrust with his sword's crossguard and twisted the blade, leaving the soldier responsible vulnerable. Haleth rolled under a strike from another soldier, coming up behind the first. With a quick slice the man fell, a bloody swathe cut across his back.

Suddenly, Haleth saw one of the remaining soldiers fly backwards, and he caught a glimpse of one of the elves, his hand bloodied. One of the soldiers came at him with his shortsword, and the elf grabbed the man before pummeling him into the ground. Haleth was even more surprised when he saw the female elf twisting a soldier's head, before moving away. A sword flying at his face interrupted Haleth's thoughts as he twisted to avoid it, before slicing upwards, severing the man's arm. The soldier fell to his knees with a scream, and Haleth wasted no time in plunging his sword down, thrusting between the man's collarbones. _'One left.'_

Turning around, Haleth managed to see a longsword flying down at him from above. Putting his offhand on his sword's blade, Haleth caught the longsword, before twisting his arms to the side, pushing the enemy's weapon away. The Dragonborn reversed his grip on his hilt, bringing his ebonsteel sword up so that the pommel and crossguard were faced towards the sky. The soldier was forced to watch as Haleth brought his sword down, performing the feared technique of the Bretonese knights—the _mordhau_ , or murder-stroke. The sword's crossguard plunged into the soldier's helmet, piercing it easily, before driving into the man's skull with a sickening _crunch_. A moment later, Haleth wrenched his sword free, before turning to face the two elves as the man died at his feet.

The elves were relatively unharmed, and had taken care of their share of soldiers. Despite that, they looked warily at Haleth, with suspicious looks in their eyes. Neither party spoke for a moment, as Frost cantered back to Haleth from behind him.

Haleth spoke first, lowering his sword so as to not appear hostile. "Thank you for the assistance, travelers. It was definitely appreciated."

The two elves stayed silent—Haleth could almost swear they were talking silently to each other. Finally, the young male mer spoke, his voice clear, yet careful. "It was no matter—those men attacked you for no reason. It would go against my morals to leave the issue alone."

Haleth nodded, before moving, crouching down to clean his blade on the tunic of one of the dead soldiers. "Pray tell, what sort of powers allowed you to punch like that? You sent those men flying."

The young man seemed to blink, briefly unsure of what to say to the question, and Haleth added yet another item to his growing list of information on this world. _Maybe some sort of stigma against mages._ "I don't know what you're speaking of—I have no powers that would allow me to do such."

In response, Haleth narrowed his eyes, standing up to his full height—several inches taller than either elf. "Lies. Two peasants, walking down a road _to the south_ , where a band of soldiers nearly questioned you before seeing me. Veils of magicka so strong around both of you, and characteristics that mark you both as _elves_ in my vision." The two elves tensed, as if preparing for a fight. "You're both heading south to the Varden, aren't you? Elven diplomats or mages, of some sort."

The young man seemed ready to fly at Haleth with fists extended. The elves' eyes seemed to flicker this way and that way as they looked at each other, as if holding some sort of private, silent discussion between themselves. _Suspicious_. However, a few seconds later, the two seemed to arrive at an ultimatum, before the man turned back to Haleth.

"Very well, it seems you've exposed our ruse. You are partially correct—we're agents of the Varden. But," at this point, the young man smirked, in an infuriating way, "to the best of our knowledge, you are heading to meet the Varden yourself. Going south on the same road, King Galbatorix's soldiers attacked you—we're correct, aren't we?"

Haleth simply nodded—there was nothing else to say on the matter.

"Very well. Then, we have a proposal. Travel with us, and we'll take you to the Varden."

At this, Haleth's eyes narrowed—who in their right mind would suddenly invite a stranger, a deadly one at that, to simply travel with them, without any notion of their background? _There has to be some sort of ulterior motive._

"Why? To keep an eye on me? That is what I suspect."

The young man nodded, and Haleth noticed that so far, the elvish woman had not uttered a single word. "I would be lying if I said that wasn't the case. Despite that, we do hope to bring you to the Varden. They could use a warrior like yourself."

Haleth snorted—the mer assumed that the Dragonborn would simply be just another pawn—that was not so. Haleth would not settle for the position of a mere grunt. Pushing the thoughts off to the side, however, the Nord simply nodded, gesturing to the south. "Then let us be on our way. The sooner we arrive there, the better." The young man nodded, before the two elves started moving south again, Haleth and Frost at their heels.

* * *

Night had fallen upon the three travelers, and they had elected to make camp at a clearing in the woods. Haleth watched, silent, as both the man and woman set down their respective bedrolls, before sitting with his back against a tree a few meters away from them. He set his gear down, before unsheathing his sword. The blade shined eerily in the moonlight, and Haleth could see the lines where steel melded with ebony. A beautiful sword it was, but it was still in need of cleaning.

The Dragonborn ignored his companions' stares as he cleaned his beloved sword, eventually clearing it of all the grime it had acquired. The sword itself was near unbreakable, but it was still vulnerable to damage. He would have to hold off on sharpening the blade, as, well... he was in the woods.

When he was finished, Haleth sheathed the sword, before setting it down on the ground next to him. Making himself comfortable against the tree, Haleth was ready to rest, when a voice sounded somewhere nearby.

"We never did introduce ourselves, and we don't know your name either. I guess the time for introductions is now."

Haleth's eyes snapped open, before he turned his head towards the voice. The young man and woman were looking at him—again, it was as if they were holding a silent conversation between themselves.

"So be it." Haleth sighed, before sitting up. "My name is Haleth."

"Bergan. And this is… Katrina."

Haleth raised his eyes—the young man was lying to him, he could tell. Those names were false—they were incognito, after all. Despite that, he said nothing. They had their reasons, and the Dragonborn was not privy to them yet.

The young man fidgeted, as if knowing that Haleth did not believe him. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat, before speaking once more. "What are your reasons for wanting to join the Varden, if I may ask?"

Haleth hesitated for a bit, looking down at the ground. He needed a suitable answer, and yet Haleth did not have enough information to provide a sure one. Joining the Varden itself was a risky choice, as he had no information on neither the king, nor the Varden. "Personal reasons. Nothing more."

This time, it was the elf's turn to narrow his eyes, and he was quickly joined by the female. "Well, I won't question it, but be sure to know that the Varden will question you once we arrive. They'll look into your mind."

Haleth's eyes briefly snapped towards Bergan, before turning away again. "Then let them try. They will achieve nothing." He slumped again, watching as Frost returned from her brief grazing. "Now, I suspect we all need some rest." With that, Haleth closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to take him. He could hear Bergan grunt unhappily nearby, before the two elves made for sleep themselves.

Sleep had quickly taken Haleth, and he found himself deeply immersed in further dreams. However, in the back of his mind, he could feel a tiny pinprick, as if something were trying to intrude, to pick the lock into his memories. _Who…_

An aura, a spirit—both human and elvish, yet with a tinge of draconic nature. Haleth awoke, yet kept up the pretense of being asleep. Slowly, he seeped the darkness from within him, and he could _feel_ the presence.

Bergan. Or whatever his name was. The elf-mage was attempting to invade Haleth's mind, to see his memories, his darkest secrets. _Let him try_ , Haleth thought. The elf would have no success.

Seconds later, Haleth could feel Bergan suddenly recoil, as he was set upon by the various souls within him. Innumerable dragons, headed by one greater than them all, a wolf, a nightingale, and the human. Bergan's presence immediately fled from Haleth's mind, leaving traces of shock and fear as it did. Slowly, the darkness crept towards Bergan and Katrina's bedrolls, sitting in wait to hear their thoughts.

 _Not a man, by any means. Arya, he's something else, something horrifying. Like the souls of many different beings have been forged violently into one._

 _I told you not to read his mind, Eragon. We may be dealing with something bigger than a simple human warrior, thief, or whatever he is._

 _I needed to see who he was, Arya. If we could trust him. That question hasn't been answered yet._

Leave it ** _,_** _Eragon. We don't need another enemy—I can feel his power._

 _... Fine._

With that, Haleth let the darkness recede, his companions' voices stopping altogether. _Eragon and Arya, their true names. One an elf, and another, some odd combination of human and elf. What could this mean?_ Despite that, Haleth ignored the matter at hand—he needed rest, and like Arya had said, he did not need any more enemies right now, until he could find out what was going on in Lorkhan's world. Once more, Haleth let sleep take him, as he fell to the memories that had suddenly pervaded his dreams.

 **Author's Note:**

Hey, guys, hope you guys enjoyed the third chapter of Ye of Bygone Days. I enjoyed writing this one, though it was a filler. Next one is already done, and should be up in about two weeks or so. Please feel free to review, as it all helps out immensely!

 **Individual Replies:**

Axcel: I feel that the "dragon blood and soul" is open to interpretation. What you said is basically my belief, and how I wrote that part. However, I do believe that while each Dragonborn has the blood and soul of a dragon merged within them, making them half dragon, and half man. However, because of the domineering effect of the dragon soul and blood, every Dragonborn runs the risk of falling to it, and succumbing to its maddening effect-it isn't ho-hum to just have the soul of a dragon. This is seen in Miraak, the Firstborn, who went insane with the power of the dragon souls he absorbed, or through the various Mad Kings of the Septim Dynasty, the most prominent of whom being Pelagius Septim. Others, however, took to the Dragon Soul much better, like Tiber Septim or Alessia. In effect, Haleth did not know what path is own would take him on-he was wary of that, and chose not to deal with it in the first place, taking the Daedra's power and fusing it with his soul-which fragmented it further.

Axcel again: By the armor, I actually had a non-canon armor in mind. It was based off the mod "Falkreath Ranger Armor" on the nexus, or TWM Falkreath Ranger, with the masked hood and gloved bracers. Imagine that armor, but fully black, and you have Haleth's armor. Also, by the souls of those in Alagaesia, I think that their souls are synonymous with their health and stamina-it's essentially their life force they're using.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:**

If any of you have read Annonimous' _Dragons_ , then you'll see that this chapter is very much like hers at the same point. This is because my story was loosely inspired by hers. Make no mistake, the story plots will diverge soon.

 **Disclaimer: I own neither the Elder Scrolls nor The Inheritance Cycle. Both belong to Bethesda Game Studios and Christopher Paolini respectively.**

They had been on the move for nearly the entirety of another day, and Haleth could feel the searing heat from the sun above them. Though the trio had walked and run without words, Haleth could sense that Eragon and Arya were speaking privately between themselves—telepathy, he assumed.

Haleth looked behind him to check that Frost was still following and faced away again, reaching for his waterskin. Not since his ventures into Hammerfell had he been this hot—as a Nord, he was used to the cold, and had only really developed a resistance to heat after his long travels through Hammerfell and the southern provinces of Tamriel. it was no way near as strong as that of say, the Redguards or the Khajiit, but he could cope. Taking a small sip of his water, Haleth sighed, before turning towards Eragon.

"…Bergan, was it?"

The elf-man turned to face Haleth, a questioning look on his face. "Yes?"

"That's not your real name, is it? And neither is Katrina hers." He motioned towards Arya, who had also turned to look at Haleth.

The two elves simply stared, appearing a little shocked, as if they had not expected Haleth to find out. After a few seconds, they finally regained their composure. "No… no, it is not. Eragon is my name, and she is Arya." The elf frowned, as if doubtful. "How did you know?"

"When you introduced yourselves, you did not seem to really hold heart in those names—you were simply wearing them, for lack of a better term."

This only served to confuse Eragon. "Well, that… that definitely explains things." The elf turned around, clearly not the least bit understanding, yet not wanting to open further discussion. Haleth was happy to oblige him.

A few hours later, Haleth could see a camp, of sorts—tents, makeshift buildings, and other amenities. The Varden, it seemed, and his suspicions were affirmed by Eragon not moments later.

"We made it! Murtagh, Thorn, hundreds of soldiers, Galbatorix's pet magicians, the Ra'zac—none of them could catch us." Eragon seemed elated, excited even, to have finally reached the Varden, laughing in what seemed like contempt. "How's that for taunting the king? This'll tweak his beard for sure when he hears of it."

Haleth made sure to file all of these names and objects in his brain—Murtagh, some sort of agent, maybe? A rival? Thorn, another of the same sort, most likely. Galbatorix's pet magicians—he thought mages were scorned in this land. And, there it was again, the Ra'zac. The same names he hears uttered by the soldiers in the tavern. Whatever these all were, they had apparently failed to catch Eragon and Arya. If the king had put this many resources into catching Eragon, then…

Then the two elves were valuable targets indeed. Haleth made sure to flag this within his mind.

"He will be twice as dangerous then." This was the first time Haleth heard Arya speak. A graceful voice, but also that of a stoic leader. He chuckled internally.

"I know. Maybe he'll get so angry, he'll forget to pay his troops and they will all throw away their uniforms and join the Varden."

Unlikely. Foolish, even.

"You are in fine fettle today."

"And why shouldn't I be?" Eragon demanded. Haleth looked to the distance, to see two patrols of cavalrymen riding towards them. As he readied himself for a potential conflict, Haleth out of the corner of his eye Eragon's expression of elation at… something else? Another telepathic companion?

 _Wait._

What was that feeling? His dragon soul was calling out to him, singing to him, which only happened when…

 _Dragon!_

Haleth looked up, immediately whipping his sword from its sheath and making ready. _There!_ The silhouette was silhouette by the sun behind it, yet Haleth could see the distinct form of a dragon. Was it friendly? Hostile? Haleth did not know, and he would not take chances.

It descended, roaring as it did so, and a stream of fire emerged from its muzzle, searing the air. Strange – Haleth did not sense a thu'um. The dragon landed with a thunderous crash, and Haleth could see it in full—as blue as a sapphire, and… graceful? The ground beneath his feet rumbled, and Haleth, were it not for his years of experience fighting dragons, would have fallen to the ground. His eyes glazed over the dragon as he held his sword and…

Four legs?

There, in front of him, was a dragon that had two forelegs instead of wings, the feet equipped with talons that seemed sharp enough to cleave a man in two. _Even more dangerous, harder to flank… maybe this is what Lorkhan was talking about when he said his world's dragons were different._

Haleth looked upon the dragon, he noticed something odder still than its legs. The way it handled itself, the way it moved… everything about it screamed "female" to him. Were there even female dragons? As far as Haleth was aware, dragons did not reproduce—they were all creations of Akatosh himself. This dragon, with all its differences, drove home the fact that the dragons of this land... _Alagaesia_ , were more complex than he had first imagined.

Eragon, not noticing the hostility Haleth displayed, rushed forwards, as if ecstatic, and embraced the dragon to the best of his ability, leaping onto it in fully displayed love. For her part, Arya stood in front of Haleth, gesturing for him to lower his sword. Complying, but not sheathing it, Haleth looked in wonder at the display of absolute adoration. Arya turned around, waving to the dragon. "Greetings, Saphira."

Saphira? What a non-draconic name. Curious.

How should he greet this dragon, Haleth wondered, now that it had shown itself to be friendly? Back home, Haleth would converse with dragons as if he was one himself—as he was, using the general greetings of fire breath, of conversations in the language of the dragons. He was not sure breathing fire onto this… Saphira would help matters. Instead, Haleth simply resigned himself to the ancient dragon language.

" _Drem yol lok_ , _dovah_."

The dragon turned to face him, as if shocked or surprised. " _Greetings, human…"_

Haleth blinked—was the dragon speaking inside his head?

"Surprised, are you? What was that language you spoke?" Eragon looked at him, a curious look on his face.

Haleth shook the thought from his mind, focusing on the present. "It is of no matter, I am just not used to… telepathy, is all. As for the language… that is of no matter as well."

Eragon simply frowned, not clearly having not expected that answer. "There is no need to fear Saphira, Haleth."

Haleth looked at Eragon, almost furious with his words, but let the matter drop. The riders had reached them at that point, and after a brief discussion, Eragon and Arya left with them, motioning for Haleth to follow. The Dragonborn followed closely, keeping a moderate distance from Saphira as she crawled along the ground. They passed into the camp, and Haleth took note of the awe-filled glances and shouts of praise the people sent his companions' way. _Ah, so they are… heroes, of a sort. Good to know…_

Soon, they had come across a troupe of what seemed to be elves—one elf, in particular, looked more like a fusion of elf, wolf, and cat than anything else, and seemed to be the leader. Haleth waited for them to end their discussion, taking his time to gaze upon the Varden.

Just as they considered Eragon a hero, the people regarded Haleth with suspicion, gazing upon the man clad in black as if he was a danger to them, a rare, yet threatening curiosity. They did not know who he was, but took his weapons and attire for a sense of danger. Good. He was not some simple pawn, and would not be used as such.

Who was the first person Haleth had acquiesced to? He was a Nord, after all, a member of a proud and honorable race. He was not some mindless weapon to be taken advantage of, he was the Dragonborn—a formidable foe in and of himself, be it through military or political means. The first mortal Haleth had formally served was Titus Mede III, well after the Civil War and the Dragon Crisis. The man was honorable. Young, but he had the markings of a great leader, fashioned after Uriel Septim the Great. Haleth had seen the potential in the boy, and had decided to serve him.

No other mortal had been given that honor before.

Haleth ripped himself back to the present when he noticed that the party was once more on the move. Eragon had motioned towards one of the guards, and the same guard beckoned for Haleth to follow him. He did so, and the two eventually arrived at a tent, similar to those within the rest of the camp.

"This is where you'll stay for the day. There are formal matters to attend to, but Lady Nightstalker will likely desire to meet with you early tomorrow." The soldier nodded, turning to leave. "A courier will come to you tomorrow morning."

Haleth watched as the soldier left, and then turned around, gazing upon the interior of the tent. A simple bed, a small desk, and a chest. This pleased Haleth—he was not a man of décor, he was a simple man. He set his gear down, and after a few minutes had completely cleared himself of his arms and armor, besides his undershirt and trousers. Sitting upon the bed, Haleth simply cleared his mind and rested.

* * *

Haleth awoke early the next day, feeling quite refreshed overall. He had just gotten completely dressed, armed, and armored when a young boy entered his tent.

"Erm, ser? Our Lady requests that you meet her in her pavilion as soon as you can."

Haleth simply turned to stare at the boy, before nodding. The courier, by this point nervous and anxious, did not hesitate in leaving, nearly sprinting out of the tent. Haleth took a few moments to affirm that his gear was in order, before leaving for the center pavilion. On the way, he picked up a loaf of bread to eat, sating his growing hunger as he walked. Along the way, he could still see that those of the Varden who were awake this early in the day met his gaze with apprehension, wary of Haleth himself. Eventually finding his way to the main pavilion, he was stopped by a set of vicious looking guards.

Some were simple humans, and there were other, stranger creatures—some sort of miniature person, with heavyset beards across their faces. Large beings that reminded Haleth of orcs, yet possessed fierce-looking horns. Frankly, they would be intimidating to the common man—though Haleth was not the common man.

"Halt. Who goes there?" One of the orc-like beings stopped him, holding out a green-skinned hand.

"Haleth. Your Lady Nightstalker was supposed to meet me?"

The orc seemed to acknowledge the name, and motioned for Haleth to enter. "She is in the middle of an audience, right now. Enter quietly." Haleth nodded in turn, brushing past the orc.

Upon entering, Haleth took in the sight of the pavilion. It was mostly empty, with a row of chairs arranged in a semicircle around a throne. Within the throne sat a woman, ebony-skinned with a rather fierce, determined visage upon her—eerily similar to the Redguards back in Tamriel. She wore linen bandages across her arms—possibly she had been recently wounded. She had been in battle, then, and these injuries would either be a mark of weakness or proof of her courage. Haleth would have to see for himself.

In front of her sat Eragon, a small girl and an old crone. He could see Arya, the elf, standing near the woman, her arms crossed. Haleth nearly jumped when he saw the head of the dragon from earlier, Saphira, poking in through the side of the tent. A… cat, of sorts, sat beside the dragoness, sleeping. As he entered, all the heads in the pavilion turned towards him, and Haleth gave a hard stare towards the dark-skinned woman, whom Haleth assumed was this… Lady Nightstalker. A curious name.

"You sent for me?"

The woman frowned, as if offended. Haleth wondered what he had done wrong, until one of the guards approached him. "The Lady Nightstalker requires your respect, you lout. Bow to her."

Haleth turned his head towards the guard, cocking it sideways. He was a little irked—bow, to her? A woman Haleth had no reason to bow to, no respect for, and no knowledge of? The guard, obviously angered at Haleth's action, or lack thereof, grasped his polearm and made ready to force Haleth to bow, when the Lady raised her hand.

"There is no need for that." She regarded Haleth with a threatening curiosity, as if gauging him. "Your name is Haleth, yes? Eragon has told me about you."

Haleth nodded, waiting for her to continue.

"It's been made known that you are quite… reticent. That you avoided answering most of his questions. He suspects that you are withholding information, as do I. So…" The woman paused for effect, still analyzing Haleth. "We, in the Varden, do not know where your loyalties lie. The easiest way to find out the truth is to read your mind. Quick, painless, you'll hardly feel anything inside your thoughts. Unless we find reason to the contrary, we will permit you to join the Varden afterwards."

"You can try, but you won't succeed."

Lady Nightstalker, as well as everyone else in the tent, seemed rather taken aback by Haleth's hostile words, and several guards apparently felt the need to draw their weapons. For her part, the woman frowned, as if affronted. "There is no other way to affirm your loyalties, Haleth. It will be no trouble if you let us read your mind."

"Like I said, you can try. I don't guarantee you'll get much out of it. Most likely, your… mages, I assume, will go insane. You can risk it, if you so desire." As he spoke, he noticed the little girl staring at him with a piercing gaze, as if scrutinizing every bone in his body with her violet eyes.

"I assure you, Haleth, that Blodhgarm, one of the elves, is quite able to read any mind. It will be no problem."

"Then let him try."

The leader of the Varden nodded, before sending a guard off. A few moments later, the guard returned, with the elf from the day before with him. Haleth took a few moments to get a better look at the elf—blue fur? Wolfish and feline characteristics, as if the elf was melded with several different animals. The wolf inside Haleth could also sense a sort of aura, or musk around Blodgharm—it would have been beautiful to a normal human, especially to women, but to Haleth, it was simply a mess of things.

Blodhgarm approached Haleth, staring him in the eyes. Haleth returned the stare with an equal amount of rigid fortitude, and the elf muttered a few words. Immediately, Haleth's sight turned black, and he felt a needle-like sensation attempting to dig its way into his head.

The needle struggled, yet ultimately passed through Haleth's exterior defenses, driving its way into his mind. It probed through for a brief time, before Blodgharm experienced the same chaos as Eragon had earlier as Haleth's multiple souls drove him furiously back. After what seemed like a few seconds, the elf was unable to resist any longer, and extracted the probe with a relatively painless jerk, bringing Haleth back into reality,

The elf, Blodgharm, fell back – Haleth knew his mind would now be reeling with hundreds of different sensations. Carefully and cautiously, the elf returned to his feet, giving Haleth an almost scared look. Once more, the guards in the room tightened their holds on their weapons, and as Blodgharm approached Lady Nightstalker, she glared at Haleth. The Dragonborn could see Saphira regarding him out of the corner of his eye, her eyes twinkling with interest.

Blodgharm spoke quietly with the leader of the Varden, and as they spoke, Haleth could see the Redguard-like woman narrowing her eyes. Finally, she turned towards Haleth, her visage as hard as stone. "Haleth, I do not know what you did, but I'm afraid Blodgharm was not able to attain much from you. We still do not know where your allegiances are." She took a breath, before continuing. "We will have to contain you while we discuss this situation further, and determine a different way to find out whether or not we can trust you."

When she finished, several of the guards approached Haleth, drawing their weapons. In response, Haleth drew his sword, dropping into a combat stance. The guards hesitated, but then walked towards Haleth once more, albeit slower.

"I have to ask you to stand down, Haleth. None of us want a fight in here, and I'm sure you are quite against dying," the woman said coldly.

"I have no intentions of being held as a prisoner, Nightstalker. You underestimate me, and I can easily leave here to join the Empire. The king seems like a better choice by every second." Haleth was interrupted when one of the guards, a human, yelled a battlecry, charging at Haleth with his sword raised high. He brought it down, fully intending to cleave Haleth in two, but was surprised when his sword was caught against the crossguard of Haleth's sword. The Dragonborn wrenched it to the side, before punching the guard's stomach, bringing his sword's pommel down on the man's head. The guard fell with a _clunk_ , unconscious.

Haleth spun around, kicking another guard back to the ground, and was about to slay the man when a loud cry stopped him.

"Stop!" He turned to see Arya holding her hand up, causing the guards to cease their actions.

"Arya?" Lady Nightstalker turned towards the elf, a questioning look on her face. In turn, Arya faced her.

"Lady Nasuada," Ah, so that was her name. "I do not think attacking this man would bring about any good."

"What do you mean?" Nasuada asked.

"I agree, Nasuada—this Haleth is not a normal man, by any means. He appeared quite willing to fight Saphira in single combat earlier, so make no mistake, he must be capable." She turned towards him, glaring at the Nord. "It would be a waste to throw a potential ally away."

Nasuada eyed her curiously, yet still seemed to be considering her remark. "What do you intend to do?"

"I'll duel him, to the yield. See how well he does. We can question him later, and I fully intend to. But, for now, it would not do to antagonize him like this."

Nasuada seemed to reflect on Arya's words, before coming to a decision. "Very well. Arya, take Haleth outside, test him. We will follow."

Arya nodded before leaving the tent, motioning for Haleth to follow her. He did, and Nasuada, Blodgharm, Eragon, and Saphira followed, the latter obviously eager to see the duel.

A few minutes later, Haleth found himself on the opposite end of a makeshift arena, his sword drawn as he faced Arya. The elf, for her part, carried her own sword in her left hand with what looked to be a single-handed style, readying herself. Not a few moments before, Arya had taken both his and her swords, appearing to dull the edges with magic. A crowd had gathered, despite the guards' actions, and Haleth could see bets being made.

It seemed they favored Arya. _She must be quite the combatant, for them to have such confidence in her abilities_.

Nearby, Nasuada stood, gazing silently at the proceedings. With a wave of her hands, the duel began, and Haleth readied himself. With two hands on his sword, he held it to the side, beckoning for Arya to attack him.

And attack him she did, as with blinding speed she rushed towards Haleth. Her strike towards the Dragonborn was near invisible to most, but Haleth's experienced eyes saw it coming, and he spun to the side, bringing his sword up to parry her next attack. He twisted his blade, gaining the advantage, and while her sword was still caught against his crossguard, he pressed forwards aiming towards Arya's heart. However, before the thrust could land, Arya rolled back, her eyes narrowed as she judged Haleth under a new light. Haleth had a feeling she knew this fight would not be easy – and he knew it wouldn't be, too.

This time, Haleth took the initiative, rushing towards her with his sword readied. He could see the counter that Arya prepared, and after bringing his sword down, rolled under Arya's strike, coming up behind the elf. He stabbed forwards, only to have his sword deflected. The elf struck once more, swinging her sword from the side, and Haleth stepped inside her guard, catching the blade against the edge of his. Forcing both swords down, he jabbed at Arya with his elbow, catching her in the chest. She took a few steps back, flinching, and Haleth hit her sword to the side before raising it high.

He brought it down with force, planning to render her unconscious, but was suddenly stopped by Arya's desperate two-handed block. The elf kicked him backwards, but Haleth rolled off the blow, bringing his sword back up to ready himself for their next engagement. Once again, he attacked first, bringing his sword up to parry a cut before jabbing inwards with the pommel of his sword. To Haleth's surprise, Arya caught the sword's hilt, twisting her arm to side. The Nord, surprised at Arya's great strength, was forced to flip through the air over his sword, landing back on his feet. He brought his blade up again as if to slice Arya in half, creating a large opening in his defense.

Arya took the chance, thrusting inwards with extraordinary speed. However, Haleth revealed his feint, rolling under the thrust. He came up to a knee behind Arya, bringing his sword back in reverse grip. It slid into the space in the back of Arya's knees, and she fell with a cry. Haleth turned around, bringing his sword down upon her.

To see that while his sword sat against Arya's face, hers had come to land over his heart.

They held the position for a few seconds, before an enormous amount of applause and cheers erupted from the crowd. Arya stood back up, nodding towards Haleth, and he turned towards the crowd, a slight glare in his eyes. He could see that most of the people were excited by the duel, the adrenaline pumping in their blood. While most of those that had bet were grumbling slightly, Haleth could see the odd person with a shit-eating grin upon their face. The Nord gave a small chuckle, before turning back towards Arya and Nasuada.

"So, Arya? What do you think?" Nasuada questioned.

The elf did not answer, taking a few seconds to look over Haleth, before deciding upon an answer. "He is good, I'll give him that much. Especially for a… human, I guess." She turned towards Nasuada, nodding her head. "We can question him another day, Nasuada. For now, we should all call it a night."

It was true. The sun had fallen by now, and the moon had risen, shining its dim light upon the land. Torches had been lit, and the night patrols were preparing themselves.

"Very well. Arya, you are dismissed. Haleth, you too may return to your tent. Do expect a messenger in the next few days—I would like to question you formally."

Haleth simply nodded, sheathing his sword and walking away, the crowd parting before him as he passed through it. Sleep sounded good to him.

 **Author's Note:**

Hey, guys. Hope you all enjoyed Chaper 4 of Ye of Bygone Days. Please share your thoughts on the chapter, as I'll take all the help I can get.

Unfortunately, I will likely be taking a brief break from writing, maybe one to three weeks. I just feel that with College Applications, school essays and papers, and the two stories I'm writing right now, my overall quality is diminishing. Hopefully that doesn't bother you guys too much.

 **Individual Replies:**

 **Vicent1995:** I'm not sure whether to take your review as flaming or not, but I'll roll with it.

Honestly, it's not necessary to call it a "steeming pile of garbage." I'm not sure how you can deem Haleth as a mary sue three chapters in, when we've barely learned about him, but you have a right to your own thoughts, yes; Like I said with another reviewer, I say that the "canon," as you put it, is open to interpretation-Bethesda didn't give us clear cut answers, and I'm rolling with how I interpret the story. If you could explain what I got wrong about the canon, like "armor," which is based on mod armor, and the "nature of the dragonborn," that would help immensely; If you feel as if my characterization is wooden and annoying, please explain it and give me a helping hand. I want to see what you feel is wrong, and try to fix that.

Your three main points are, honestly, minor and unimportant, and I don't see the logic behind your reasoning, to be honest. Can you explain them, so I can better understand what's wrong.

Overall, thanks for your review, as every bit helps, but I'm still not sure whether to take it as flaming that's trying to get a rise out of me, or if you had a particularly bad day.

 **Hellfire44:** Well, I've never heard of the Shezzarine before. Thanks for the information, I will definitely be researching that. If it's something I can adopt into my story, I definitely will. Thanks!

 **GoldenSteel:** Thanks for your concerns. I understand them, and worried about them too. Of course, my top AN addresses that, and it's true-the story will diverge soon, as much as I can without diverging too much from the plot of the books. Haleth is a completely different character from... Colin, was his name? And will go through different things. No worries, but I can see why you thought so.

Well, that's it! Thanks for reading, guys, and see you next time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: I am so sorry.**

 **Disclaimer: I own neither the Elder Scrolls or the Inheritance Cycle. They belong to Bethesda Softworks and Christopher Paolini respectively.**

"A wedding, you say?"

Haleth raised an eyebrow, a slight frown furrowing his brow. To his front sat a woman that perplexed the Nord to no end—Angela, she called herself, an herbalist of her own definition. And yet, Haleth could not shake the feeling that this woman was so much more than a simple "herbalist."

"Yes, a wedding. Have you never been to one?" Angela paused for a moment, her eyes sweeping up and down over Haleth. "Well actually, you certainly don't seem to be the sort…"

Haleth's frown grew in size, the veiled… insult? Observation? Whatever it was, it irritated him. Slightly.

"No, that is not the case. I've had my fair share of weddings, most of the time as a visitor." Haleth's eyes floated to the side, memories appearing to him. Yes, the last wedding he had attended had been… less than successful, to say the least. Certainly not a happy one—never would that be the case if the bride happened to die during it. Unless the bride was, of course, a shrew of any sort. Ah, these sorts of things were always too contrived for the wary ranger.

Poor Vittoria. If only Haleth had been a mite faster, she would not have ended up a red and white stain on the courtyard of the Temple of the Divines.

"Only most of the time? You don't seem to be the sort to be married, no offense…"

Haleth chuckled, shaking his head. "None taken, dear herbalist, and no, I am not married. I admit, I have never had the idea to… settle, as it were." Haleth shrugged, before speaking once more. "And who are the bride and groom of the day?"

"Ah, yes. The lucky gentleman is Roran Stronghammer, as his people have started to call him—he's Eragon's cousin, or brother, or whatever, that one, the groom. The bride is Katrina, also from the same village Roran hails from." Angela shrugged mutely, her mouth curling into a smirk. "It was supposed to have happened a few days ago, but it was delayed, for the time being. Unfortunately."

"And they saw fit to entwine themselves during this war? On a battlefield?"

Angela frowned in turn, shrugging while looking a tad frustrated. "Well, yes. It may not be the best time for a wedding, but if they so choose to do so now, then why not?"

"It is a horrible time for a wedding. A strategic nightmare, the perfect time for the enemy to ambush us... We are in a vulnerable position—no defensive fixtures, a camp full of civilians who are intermixed with the soldiers, and I have no doubt that during the wedding, there will be no shortage of drunken men and women, helpless in their joviality and reveling." Haleth fought the need to connect his face with the palm of his hand. "Absolutely stupid of the… leaders, of the Varden, as it were."

"Eh, what can you do?" Angela simply shrugged.

Another thought came to Haleth's mind, and his mouth curled once more, looking Angela straight in the eyes. "And why exactly did you see the need to tell me? We are not exactly acquainted, after all."

"What, a few days' worth of chatting and getting to know each other, and you do not even consider me a friend, not even an acquaintance?" The herbalist looked offended, leaning backwards with an incredulous gaze in her eyes.

"No."

This time, Angela seemed to be the one fighting the urge to bring her hand to her face. "Oh, how dull you are, Haleth." Her expression became pensive; Haleth was given the distinct impression that she was gauging him. "But, I will be honest—after I saw you during Nasuada's meeting, and then your duel with Arya, I admit that you have piqued my interest. You, Haleth, are an unknown to me. I don't know who you are, what you are doing, what your intentions are, and from whence you came." Her eyes narrowed, her head turning a slight bit to the left. "And I am the sort of woman who wants to know everything about everything around her. And how best to grow accustomed to the unknown, then to personally deal with them?"

Haleth nodded—it was a respectable answer. "Very well. Now, at what time is this wedding, anyways?"

"Oh, in about… thirty minutes?" Angela, to her credit, was humble enough to look flustered at this break in knowledge.

"Thirty... oh, of course. And I assume I need to… tidy up, as… people say?"

"Oh no, no need at all. The wedding is going to be a little bit informal, after all. We still need to be on the watch for any attack, as you said yourself."

Haleth gave a low sigh, more than a little relieved. "That is… good. Well, I guess we should be on our separate ways. Farewell, Angela?" Hopefully, these people's goodbyes were not so different from those in Tamriel —he had enough trouble with social situations as it was.

"Yes, yes, goodbye. Enjoy the last of your… mead, Haleth. Hopefully you don't come down with illness after drinking that." She gave the bottle of mead at Haleth's hands a look of disgust before standing up from the table and departing, leaving Haleth alone in the pavilion Looking down, Haleth gave the bottle a similar look to that one Angela had bestowed on it, though not quite so venomous. The bottle had served its purpose, albeit poorly, and Haleth threw the bottle into a nearby wastebucket with a shrug. Looking into the sky, Haleth judged the position of the sun—thirty minutes he had, and thirty minutes he would waste.

* * *

Haleth was utterly bored here.

Strolling through the Varden camp, Haleth judged the stares and gazes of those around him. Wary ones, scared ones, measuring ones, and faux-intimidating ones. It seemed that after his duel with the elf Arya, Haleth had made quite the impression on the Varden.

With good reason, of course. From what he'd picked up, it was not often in this place that a simple human could beat an elf in swordplay, especially an elf of Arya's social stature. Yes, indeed, Arya seemed to be quite the special little mer, and it appeared that no one had seen Haleth for the fighter he was.

Passing by a tent of peasants, Haleth nodded at a little boy, who seemed frightened at Haleth's appearance, if a little awestruck. Haleth could not help but feel a little bit self-conscious—he had never gotten used to the whole ordeal of being the famed Dragonborn of legend, but he had dealt with that by hiding his identity as the Dragonborn. Here? Even in a very much miniscule position of… infamy, as it was, Haleth was never the best at dealing with attention.

Probably a reason why he was "one of them sneaky types," in the words of the Whiterun Guard. His hood and mask probably left much to the imagination, no doubt—not that Haleth had any desire to show his face to the masses.

For now, however, Haleth had decided to put off his arrival at the present wedding. It was not as if they expected him there, despite the event having started some minutes before. Haleth felt it was okay to play truant, for the time being.

He arrived shortly at the one of the various training fields within the Varden camp. Upon his arrival, the multitude of warriors currently training seemed to falter for a short moment, before resuming their practices. Haleth, in turn, merely shrugged before approaching what seemed to be the local quartermaster.

"I wish to train."

The quartermaster, on his part, seemed more than a little taken aback by Haleth's statement. "Blunt one, are ye now? Well, feel free to take a practice sword from over there and get hacking. Plenty of dummies to go 'round." The large man, garbed in heavy plate armor and wielding an axe of some sort, responded, nodding his head in affirmation.

"I would also request a partner to duel with."

The man frowned, before nodding. "Alright, then I'll get ye one." Turning around, he called to one of the several warriors. "Oi, Wilhelm! Get over here and help this lad train. Duel him, if ye will."

The man in question, Wilhelm, took one look at Haleth before shuffling on his feet. "Eh, sir, I'd… rather not, in truth."

"Well, why the hell not? Ah, whatever." Pointing to another man, the quartermaster gestured towards Haleth. "Moriarty, pick up your sword and take this man to the circle!"

Once more, the soldier in question refused, and Haleth could see the quartermaster growing angrier. "Why the hell does no one want to fight this little roguish peeve here!? Is no one going to do it?"

The first soldier, Wilhelm, started to speak, albeit a tad nervously. "Erm, Captain Bolden, you didn't happen to see the duel between the newcomer and that one important elf, didya'?"

The quartermaster appeared puzzled, shaking his head. "No, I didn't. Heard about it, but thought nothin' of it. Poor lad probably got himself beaten into the dirt, didn't he?"

"Erm, no sir. They came to a draw, they did… and the newcomer happens to be that man." Wilhelm pointed at Haleth, and when the quartermaster turned to look at Haleth, an incredulous look upon his face, Haleth simply shrugged.

"Eh? Really?" Haleth nodded, and the quartermaster simply shook his head, sighing as he did so. "Ach, whatever. Seems ye won't have a training partner to duel with today—or probably any other day, for that matter." The man looked over Haleth, a frown upon his face. "Don't know how ye managed to beat one o' them elves, but I reckon if it's the truth, you're quite the fighter yourself. Feel free to practice on your own, if ye so wish."

Haleth shook his head, sighing internally. "No, I'll be fine. No time anyhow, now that I realize it. Apparently there's a wedding going on right now."

The quartermaster nodded. "Ah, the wedding. Never met Stronghammer myself, but I hear he's a valuable fighter. A shame my men and I can't participate, we have to be on watch during that time." He looked strangely at Haleth, an eyebrow raised. "An' why ain't a man like ye participating in the wedding? Shouldn't you be at it?"

Haleth shrugged in response, his head tilting in dismissal. "Eh, they won't miss me much. I can be late."

Captain Bolden chuckled heartily, before giving a lazy salute to the nord. "Well, off ye go, and don't go scarin' none o' my men, if ye will."

Haleth nodded his affirmative and made his departure. A frown upon his face, Haleth realised that he craved some—any—action. Any at all.

Well, to the wedding it was—

Haleth stopped dead abruptly, his head snapping to the sky as he listened. A faint sound, brass-like and droning on. He knew that sound distinctly, having heard it across the entirety of Tamriel. With it came blood, steel, and death.

A warhorn was wailing its harbinger of death from somewhere within the camp, and like a tidal wave of movement, soldiers began to pour out of their tents in a hasty frenzy. They grabbed weapons, shields, armor, and clothing, their frantic movements bustling forth across the camp.

Haleth looked forwards, eyeing Captain Bolden's men. Immediately, the soldiers had sprung into action, alert as their eyes spread wide.

"Captain Bolden, sir, what's going on?" the young soldier from earlier, Wilhelm, blurted out, running up to his commanding officer.

"I don't know, lad." Bolden looked away, his voice escalating into a commanding shout. "Men! Grab your weapons and armor, and make ready!"

Haleth made to speak, before being interrupted by a horse cantering up to the training field. The rider carried a horn in his hands, blowing into it once, twice, before addressing Bolden. "Captain Bolden, get your men out of the camp and into the fields north of our position!"

Bolden looked warily up at the rider, his mouth curled into a frown. "Care to tell me what in hell's blazes is goin' on, ser?"

The rider shook his head. "Not much time, Bolden. The Empire is attacking, perhaps four-hundred soldiers at most. Your commander, Lord Faywell, is unavailable, so you must take the initiative and muster your men outside the gates. Hurry, Captain!" With that, the messenger rode away, his horn blaring once more.

Bolden watched as the rider departed, before looking at Haleth unsurely. "Lad, I'm not so sure as to what's going on, but it seems we're under attack. Only so few men, though." He whistled, and a horse promptly cantered up to Bolden, waiting for the man to mount it. "I'm not fit for high command, only for me and my few men here, and I dunno who is at this point. But, care to join us, young master? Seems we have some redcloaks to put under the ground." The quartermaster ended his speech by holding out a hand, presumably for the Nord to shake.

Haleth nodded, grasping Bolden's hand firmly as he shook it. "Beats sitting in here doing nothing. My name's Haleth."

"William Bolden. Good to meet you, Haleth. Now, shall we be off?"

Haleth shook his head, gesturing for Bolden to leave. "Nay, but I'll meet you and your men at our muster, Captain. I need to gather a few things, first."

The large captain nodded, before turning around. "Men! Let's move out, on the double!" Bolden rode out of the training field, his men following him on foot or horseback in a somewhat disorderly manner. Hesitating for a moment, Haleth brought his hand to his mouth, letting loose a high-pitched whistle.

From behind Haleth, a neigh sounded off, the sound of hooves clattering against dirt rushing towards him. Haleth turned around, grabbing ahold of a pair of reins as he swung himself on top of a mound of white fur.

"Missed me much, Frost?" Haleth whispered into his horse's ear, riding forth quickly through the camp as civilians and soldiers alike moved out of his way. In response, the icy-white horse whinnied, galloping forwards. Within seconds, the two approached a familiar tent, and Haleth jumped off of Frost, landing on the ground with a small roll.

The ranger rushed into his tent, his eyes whipping around as he searched. Bread, clothing, a bowl, some spare knives and forks, several books—ah! There! Haleth rushed to the corner of the tent, his hands grabbing onto a sword's hilt and slapping its sheath onto his back. Following this, Haleth slung a pale blue longbow across his back, before reaching for a long spear, a weapon he had seen fit to acquire from the camp's armory the day before.

Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Haleth sprinted out of the tent, mounting Frost with a whoop.

"Hiya! Let's go Frost, quickly!"

* * *

The air was silent and dry, the heat of the midday sun beaming down angrily upon the soldiers of the Varden. They sweated in their armor, light glaring off of their plate and mail as they shone like beacons. A few men coughed or mumbled, their eyes angled forwards as they glared upon the crimson ranks that slowly marched forwards.

"I count three—no, four. Four hundred men in red." A tall green-clad man, mounted upon a spotted brown horse, spoke from Haleth's right, his hands holding up a cylindrical, bronze telescope as he spoke. "Why so few?"

Another large man cleared his throat from behind Haleth, gulping down a mouthful of bread before he replied. "A distraction, maybe. Or a test. Who knows what Galbatorix the Pretender is planning?"

A third officer clad in full, blue-painted plate spoke in turn, his voice tinny through his visor. "Doesn't matter—we can crush them easily, and hold them at the Jiet River. Baron Tory, young master, what have you got planned?"

All eyes around Haleth shifted to a young man in the front. Man was, in effect, a bit of a misnomer, the highest-ranked officer little more than a boy, a very young baron, who had likely inherited his title and rank from a father or relative. Haleth wondered what had prompted the leaders of the Varden to put such a young boy in command of the mustered soldiers—inexperienced, likely, and afraid. Of course, the boy was accompanied by a set of older officers and soldiers, yes, and it would likely be a relatively small engagement, but that did not excuse the pure mistake in command.

The boy, Baron Tory, spoke unsurely after a silent moment, his eyes wide and fearful as they gazed out upon the ranks and files of scarlet before them. "Lord Bywater, when are our reinforcements due?"

The noble who had been eating bread, Lord Bywater, responded promptly, his voice husky and rough, like sandpaper. "Within the hour, milord. Soon's they get in armor and can arrive with their retinues."

"Hopefully they're not all too drunk at this point," the blue-plated noble replied, his horse shuffling below him as he spoke. "Though, I'm sure we'll be fine."

Baron Tory was silent for several seconds, before finally speaking once more. "Right. Captain Margrave, Captain Bolden—you two take command of our infantry and skirmishers—how many do we have?"

The telescope-wielding man in green, Margrave, responded. "About five hundred men-at-arms, milord. Mostly swordsmen and spearmen. Besides that, some one-hundred archers and crossbowmen."

Tory nodded, turning to the blue-clad knight. "Good. Ser Pent, Lord Bywater—you two take half of our cavalrymen, and charge from the right. I'll take the rest and flank from the left. Agreed?"

Ser Pent shook his head in disagreement. "I highly advise against that, milord. You're our leader, you must stay safe. Bywater will take command of our flank, but I'll stay with you behind our lines."

"Then who," Tory started, "will take command of our left, if not I?" Haleth listened to the boy ramble, evidently desperate to prove himself in command, yet fearful all the same. After a few seconds of debate and arguing, Haleth interrupted.

"Sir," Haleth began, holding up a hand. "If I may, I can hold our left. You won't need to worry about it, in that case."

The young lord looked back at Haleth, giving the cloaked nord a hard, incredulous gaze. "Then who, exactly, are you, good sir? I've no idea where you've even come from." Indeed, the rest of the nobles, with the exception of Captain Bolden, stared skeptically at Haleth.

"I'm sure the Lady Nightstalker would vouch for me," Haleth said. Of course, he didn't know that, and by the way Nasuada had treated him, Haleth could bargain that was not the case whatsoever. Tory, however, seemed to be convinced—Nasuada likely had a tremendous hold on her followers. Haleth, however, was loath to give the woman any notion of respect.

"Very well," Tory nodded, gesturing towards their left side. "You'll take command of our cavalry on the left, and charge in when our infantry have engaged. Ser Narrin awaits with your command. Does anyone have any questions about their assignemnts?" The boy received a chorus of "no sir's," and smiled grimly, riding forwards. "Then it is decided. Onwards to victory, men!"

Watching as the assembled leaders dispersed, Haleth gave Frost a pat, guiding the mare across the plains. Within a few moments, he had reached a grouping of cavalrymen, bearing blue banners. Upon seeing Haleth they were on their guard, clearly not expecting a man garbed in black cloaks to ride at them.

"Halt! Who goes there?" Their leader, it seemed, a man mounted upon a black horse, wearing a coat of steel plate as well as a cerulean cloak around his shoulders, called out to Haleth, brandishing a long lance. Evidently, this was the Ser Narrin whom Baron Tory had mentioned.

Haleth approached the man, holding up a hand in a sign of peace. "Calm yourself. Ser Narrin, I presume?"

"That is my name," the man replied, using a hand to lift his visor. "And who are you?"

Haleth stopped Frost just short of Narrin. "The name is Haleth. Under orders from Baron Tory, I'm to commandeer your unit. Do you have any issues with that?"

Narrin grumbled lowly, clearly unsure of the revelation. "Eh, I've not got any issues with that, sir."

Shaking his head, Haleth looked into Narrin's eyes. "Clearly, Ser Narrin, you do. So, may I offer a stipend, of sorts?"

"What's that?"

"You obviously have much more chemistry with your men than I ever would, Ser Narrin. I'll be leading, obviously, but, for the time being, I'll allow you to retain your general command. Just follow my orders, and all will be well."

Narrin did respond for several moments, clearly considering. After some time, the knight finally nodded, extending a gauntleted hand. "Aye, I can do that. I ain't got the head for major command, anyways, and Tory clearly vouches for you."

Haleth took the man's hand, shaking it firmly. "Thank you, Ser Narrin. Now," Haleth began, looking out towards the field. Off in the distance, a glob of crimson and steel shone under the hot sun, slowly marching towards a river that separated the two hosts. "What exactly is the situation? Our overarching orders are to charge in after the infantry engage, but I need more information."

"Well sir," Narrin started, pointing out towards the field. "King Orrin was originally supposed to take command. Unfortunately, he was preoccupied by the events of the day—the wedding. Off there, in the distance, is the Jiet River. This is the only crossing from here to Feinster, so we can't afford to lose here. Not that I think we will."

"And your men? How many cavalrymen do we have here?"

"Fifty, sir—all heavy cavalry, armed with lances and swords. We're part of King Orrin's personal guard, you see."

Haleth was confused—he had not met or heard of this "King Orrin" yet. "Who's this King Orrin?"

Ser Narrin looked at Haleth incredulously. "You haven't heard of King Orrin? King of Surda, and the only reason Lady Nightstalker and the Varden are able to support this war in the first place?"

Haleth shook his head, waving his hand in dismissal. "Oh, it doesn't matter. Signal your men, Ser Narrin—we ride forth now."

Narrin gave a brief salute before turning around, calling to his men. "Men! We ride forth, with me!"

One of the riders blew into an ivory horn, its wail signaling their movement. At a gentle pace, Haleth rode forth, followed by Ser Narrin and his company. In the distance, the crimson horde approached the river crossing, the soldiers in blue opposite them. Haleth gauged the distance, estimating that the armies would meet within a few minutes—enough time, therefore, for Haleth to reach a favorable position from which to charge. It would be simple enough—it was a scenario that Haleth had personally been involved with multiple times during the Second Great War. Time and time again, Haleth had been at the forefront of a cavalry charge.

And yet, something about this particular instance threw him off—something was different, something was off.

Something about the men in red, across the river, was simply unnatural, and the souls of the dragons, wolf, and nightingale within him screamed at him, warning him of danger.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I am very sorry for the delay, guys. Several events have happened upon me that severely delayed the output of this story, including exams, schoolwork, college applications, and a whole wide range of stuff. I've also began work on several other projects, but that's not as important.

Thanks for hanging in, guys. I promise that uploads will be somewhat more regular from here on out. I hope, at least.

 **Individual Replies:**

Blinded in a bolthole: Well, Haleth isn't a werewolf-at least, not in the traditional sense. That will become more clear as the story progresses. Also, I fully plan for the debate between the Empire and the Varden to be a key plotpoint for Haleth.

That's it! Thanks for reading, guys, and I'll see you guys soon, hopefully.


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